


Pause

by cellard00rs



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Insomnia, M/M, Smut, deductions are sexy, light mentions of gore, some language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-09
Updated: 2014-02-09
Packaged: 2018-01-11 19:23:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1176936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cellard00rs/pseuds/cellard00rs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John can't sleep. Sherlock helps.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pause

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Пауза](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1545269) by [Rishima_Kapur](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rishima_Kapur/pseuds/Rishima_Kapur)



> Initially under my sheburns1 account - moved here to keep everything together. The idea of this stems from the film 'Cashback', which is wonderful and I totally recommend seeing it. The case is based on work by Mark Waid from his comic 'Ruse', which is very Sherlockian - I also suggest reading that series as well!

Sarah broke up with John four days ago.

It’s not as if he hadn’t seen it coming. It’s not even as if he didn’t deserve it, in fact, he knows he deserved it. He was a rubbish boyfriend. If one could have ever even really considered him her boyfriend. 

She had said that herself.

He could still recall her face. 

The movements of her lips, the downcast of her eyes, fingers brushing stray strands of hair out of her face, arms crossed, body language closed. Sometimes he wished she had broken up with him over the phone. Or through text. E-mail. Some form of communication where he wouldn’t have had to physically see her. Because now it is all burned into his brain, branded on to the back of his eyelids, keeping him awake.

Sarah broke up with John four days ago and four days ago was the last time John slept.

Or, at least, he thinks it is.

It’s tough to say nowadays. Everything feels as if it is made of cardboard – stark and rough. At night he lays in the dark on his bed and stares up at the ceiling, cataloguing the sounds around him. Cars passing on the street, Sherlock’s sure footsteps as he paces downstairs, the neighbors next door trying to fuck quietly (but never quietly enough – oh no, every ragged breath, every sweet moan, every creak of their bed digs at him, puts him on edge, makes him grit his teeth, fingers knotting in his sheets and he tries oh, so very hard to _not_ think about how he’s hard).

He starts reading books – all the books he’s always wanted to read (War and Peace, Jane Eyre, Frankenstein), then his favorite books again (To Kill a Mockingbird, Catcher in the Rye, The Hobbit), even some of Sherlock’s books (Essential Logic: Basic Reasoning Skills for the Twenty First Century, Elements of Murder: A History of Poison, Time of Death, Decomposition and Identification: An Atlas). He works on his blog. He calls old friends. He exercises. He takes sleeping pills. 

But nothing works – nothing. 

He’s awake.

He’s so very _awake_.

He starts spending even more time with Sherlock, because Sherlock appears to be just as awake as he is and, at first, Sherlock says nothing. But as time passes, not even he can keep from commenting on it. John’s added presence hasn’t been a hindrance to him; on the contrary, having his flatmate around consistently has actually been something of a boon.

The time lost when John used to go to bed has now been spared. No more having to get up and get his own beakers, books, or laptop. Sherlock can now simply direct these tasks to John who, surprisingly, fulfills them without complaint.

As a matter of fact, John seems more than happy to complete them. As if being ordered about by Sherlock at all hours of the day and night has now given him purpose. And this is what begins to stick in the back of Sherlock’s mind, clawing its way to the forefront of his thoughts, distracting him from much more important work.

Really, he should care less. He wants to care less. But…well, he doesn’t.

And that realization just makes him cross.

*

He finds John in the kitchen. Apparently he has poured himself a cup of tea but spilled some of it on the counter. He stares at the spill, peering deeply into it as if it is the most fascinating thing he has ever laid his eyes on.

Sherlock has no idea how long John has been gazing at this puddle but he clears his throat, “Well? Don’t just stare at it.”

John blinks rapidly and nods, fishing a dishtowel from one of the drawers, swiping it up before he turns to look at Sherlock, “Need something?”

“Sarah dumped you,” This is said with no preamble. Sherlock expects John to react. He doesn’t. Sherlock tries again, “Perhaps you would care to tell me why?”

John looks confused and Sherlock sighs painfully as he elaborates, “Societal norms would dictate that, as your friend, it is my duty to ask you these questions. Moreover it is to my benefit. You have not been sleeping. Your health and sanity will soon be at risk.”

“But not yours? You don’t sleep either.”

“I do sleep. If very little. You have not slept at all. As a doctor I am sure you are aware of the risks associated with long term insomnia.”

“I am,” John says.

Sherlock waits (patiently, of all things) for him to continue.

John does not. He sips his tea. He breathes in deeply. He looks at Sherlock. Sherlock looks back. They could probably go on like this for hours. Finally Sherlock glowers fiercely at him, “John.”

“Sherlock.”

“We can discuss it if you like. Or I could simply pacify you with that old adage, the one about the vast majority of available sea life.”

John chuckles into his drink, "'There are plenty of fish in the sea’, is the phrase you’re looking for. Nice try though. Deleted, I take it?”

“I am not much one for proverbs.”

“Oh? Strange. Somehow thought you’d be a fan of pithy expressions.”

The face Sherlock makes at this causes him to chuckle again.

“John, the point remains. Your relationship with Sarah may have expired but I highly doubt it is neither the first, nor the last, one you shall be entangled in. As such it is ridiculous of you to lose sleep over the matter.”

“It’s not that,” John says with a shrug, “Or at least it’s not _just_ that. I honestly don’t know why I’m not sleeping. I have tried everything I can think of to induce it and-pff! Nothing! If anything I’m _more_ awake when I try to sleep. So, I gave up. End of story.”

Sherlock opens his mouth, ready to say that that is obviously _not_ the end, but he doesn’t get the chance. There’s a brisk knock at the door and Lestrade is there, that reluctant yet eager air about him, a new case clearly in the offing. 

The issue is dropped. 

For now.

*

They are escorted into a splendid (and expensive) library.

The victim, Matthew Bishop, was unquestionably wealthy and his family is putting up a small fortune to have his murder quickly and quietly solved. He lies in the middle of the room, his head entirely lobbed off and resting far from his body, a large amount of his blood splattered about, the apparent weapon (a meat cleaver) also sitting close by.

Anderson and Sally are to one side in the room, Lestrade to the other. Sherlock is walking around, inspecting everything, and John…John feels time slow. Slow, slow, slow – stop. Pause. He does a double take because he’s positive that he’s the only one moving now.

Everyone is completely still. Rigid. Frozen. He shuffles from foot to foot. He rubs at his eyes. Everything stays the same. Immobile. Still. He swallows and laughs and concludes that he has finally lost his mind. Lack of sleep taking his sanity as much as Sherlock had warned it would.

But, if in the mouth of madness, why struggle?

John moves about the room, inspecting everything in the very same manner Sherlock would have, were he still in motion. John avoids the dead body and the blood and instead chooses to look at the people. He investigates several yard members up close, invading their personal space to investigate their faces, their postures.

He goes to Sally. He can smell her shampoo, see the clench of her fingers, the tightness of her jaw – completely up close as if she were a statue. He goes to Anderson next, notices his body is pointed in Sally’s direction, his eyes doing the same and there is softness there – a warmth that makes John thoughtful.

He leaves them, goes to Lestrade. There's a sort of droop to Lestrade’s shoulders, a sort of weary give and John reaches out, curious and, yes! He can touch someone and time is still locked. Lestrade doesn’t react – doesn’t move or speak –it is as if he is a mannequin. Or better yet, an action figure, his features too strongly cut to be associated with fashion. He is much too much the dashing hero type.

John tugs at Lestrade’s shoulders gently, adjusts them, straightening him, smoothing out his clothing until he is standing upright. Tall. Confidant. That’s how Lestrade should be. He may have to ask Sherlock for help, but he is a strong man, a smart man in his own right. He should never think otherwise.

Then John licks his lips and walks over to Sherlock. Sherlock has a hand raised, lips slightly parted, and John thinks he was probably about to say something very clever before this. Before time just…stopped. And yet John is not stopped in this time. He is free to move about – free to get close – closer to Sherlock than he has ever dared.

His breath is bathing Sherlock’s face and, hesitantly, as if afraid, he raises his right hand and rests it on Sherlock’s face, fingers brushing near his chin. Sherlock doesn’t move. John relaxes marginally and lets his fingers dance along the man’s jawline, then up, thumb brushing his earlobe before his other hand rises and soon both are ruffling through his dark hair, catching on curls.

John’s lips twitch, a smile fighting about his face, and he stares into Sherlock’s eyes. The acuity, the sheer, raw power of them somehow captured inside their unbelievable color. As a doctor, as a solider, as a man – John has seen and meet hundreds of people and he can never recall seeing anyone else with eyes like these. Eyes this color.

And lips…

John’s hands pull back; only the right rising again, fingertips running along Sherlock’s bottom lip before tracing the top one, learning the shape of it, the curves and Christ, the man is attractive. John would be lying if he ever said otherwise.

John didn’t think so at first, when they had first met one another.

At first glance Sherlock’s features were too abstract, too bizarre, too _odd_ to be considered attractive. To be thought handsome. When John had first met him he had only noted the ghastly white skin, which he had thought reminiscent of candle wax and the overall …alien vibe about him. A vibe that was most certainly not put to rest once he had started talking.

But then John had gotten to known him, to live with him, to see him and talk to him every day and he had grown to be attractive. Albeit still infuriatingly alien. Though now more so in attitude than in looks. John finding Sherlock physically appealing does not distress him. He has always secretly, internally, been comfortable with the fact that he can acknowledge either gender as appealing. This is not something he has ever shared with others, outside of Harry, of all people.

One evening, early in their youth, their sibling rivalry had given way, taking a back seat to an unprecedented moment of bonding. Most likely, in part, due to the fact that they had managed to smuggle away some of their sleeping grandfather’s liquor. 

In reflection, this might very well been the evening that set Harry down on her future (and unfortunate) path, but, regardless, one could argue instead that the biggest precursor of the night was the revelation from John himself that he was attracted to both sexes.

Harry had deemed it hilarious that their parents had produced not one, but two, children with unique sexual proclivities. John had sworn her to silence and, for what it was worth, she had always kept his secret.

And now here John was, in this stolen moment, caressing Sherlock’s face and thinking about how beautiful he was. John tilts his head back and raises himself up slightly. It’s not that he’s short. He’s a perfectly average height. It’s just that Sherlock is unreasonably tall. He’s like a bloody giraffe. Yet overall, the entire package of Sherlock Holmes seems more than appropriate – that such a brilliant, keen mind is wrapped up in this tall, thin, uniquely faced individual makes more sense than most things in the world. A dynamic form for a dynamic person.

John wonders what his own body, his own face, say about himself but he doesn’t feel like self-examination. Instead one part of him is thinking about how he should try to find a way to unsnap this moment while the other is thinking about what it would be like to kiss someone taller than himself. And, more specifically, what it would be like to kiss Sherlock.

This isn’t the first time this thought has crossed his mind, but this is the first time that there’s been a true temptation behind it. A deep seated fire kindling to life in the pit of his stomach. What would it be like, he wonders, to feel those magnificently shaped lips against his own?

He will probably never know.

He cannot see any scenario in which he kisses Sherlock or in which Sherlock kisses him. God’s truth, Sherlock would probably think such an act crass or vulgar. Boring. Maybe even rude, though John can’t pinpoint exactly why he would think that but, the point remains. They will never kiss, so it is futile for John to speculate about it further.

He draws away from Sherlock, looks at the body at last, eyes narrowing in thought momentarily as he resumes his initial position before this strange phenomenon began. He tries to think of how to jumpstart the moment, return time to its normal flow and, for some inexplicable reason, decides snapping his fingers should do it.

Why not? Works well enough in films.

He snaps his fingers.

And just like that, everything is as it should be. A flood of sound, movement, _life_. No one seems cognizant of the pause and John shrugs, deciding to just go with it, losing himself to the flow of everything around him, as if nothing extraordinary at all took place.

Freed from the freeze, Sherlock finally speaks his clever thought, “Suicide.”

There is an expulsion of noise from almost everyone present – sheer disbelief running rampant, people talking over one another, Lestrade cursing, Sally sputtering, Anderson sharply asking if Holmes has finally lost his mind. Sherlock is a sea of calm, not reacting whatsoever to everyone’s alarm, instead waving a hand at the body, his entire air jaded, “Isn’t it obvious?” 

“Yes,” John returns and the clamor dies entirely as he speaks with a touch of exhaustion to his tone, “No defensive wounds. His skin is pink, the blood cherry red, that indicates cyanide poisoning. No point in poisoning someone then removing his head and even then, why leave it?”

John, completely oblivious to the fact that everyone is outright staring at him, continues, “Someone wanted him to be identified, wanted this to be pegged as a murder, though frankly, the poisoning would have been revealed in the autopsy anyway, so that means the person responsible removed the head to try and mislead us to buy some time. Perhaps so they can link the poison to someone else and try to cover the fact that it was self-inflicted - probably someone in the family, seeing as the Bishops are the ones making such a fuss.”

John finally comes to the realization that no one is speaking, that the room is deathly quiet, and he looks around, wondering if time has stopped again. It hasn’t. Everyone is merely stunned. John looks at Sherlock and Sherlock looks…

John is taken aback, because he is positive he must be misreading that look on his face. That look of utter…arousal. And arousal feels like the wrong word but it also feels like the only word that fits. John licks his lips and shrugs, “That’s all I’ve got. Sure Sherlock can unravel the rest.”

He decides to leave the room and promptly walks into the wall nearest the door. Not hard, but certainly with the kind of comical clumsy force that can only come from someone who needs sleep. He mutters an apology, to the wall of all things and, once he exits, Lestrade walks over to Sherlock, words star struck, “Did you-?”

“Yes.”

“How-?”

“His attention to detail must be heightened due to his sleep loss.”

“He just walked into the wall!”

The consulting detective offers another theory, “He’s been reading several of my books.”

“Sherlock,” Lestrade breathes the name, tries to continue talking and stops. Failing entirely, still too stunned by John’s words. Finally, “Walk us through this quickly then get John home and get him to bed. We already have one Holmes, we don’t need another.”

“I do have a brother.”

“Is he like you?”

“A bit.”

“God help us.”

Sherlock smirks and finishes explaining everything. The case wraps with the kind of swiftness that induces whiplash. This is fine by Sherlock as a much more intriguing mystery has been unveiled.

*

John is in the restroom clicking the light on and off as he looks in the mirror. There are circles under his eyes and his concentration is completely shot. As far as he is concerned, this is currently the only activity worth doing.

He almost jumps out of his skin when Sherlock’s hand covers his own on the light switch, holding it in the down position. They stand there in the shadows, a little light from the hallway keeping them from being completely enshrouded in darkness.

“John, you need to get some sleep.”

“Sherlock, I told you...”

Sherlock shoves a folded old shirt and comfy sleeping bottoms at him, “Here. Change into these. Meet me in your room. I expect to see you in precisely five minutes.”

“Five minutes?”

“Shouldn’t take you longer than that,” Sherlock’s tone brooks no argument. He turns and leaves and John, mind numb, complies.

He enters his room to see that his sheets have been drawn back and Sherlock is waiting for him. He is dressed for bed as well and John can’t help but feel his face flush. He clears his throat and goes for the safety of sarcasm, “You going to tuck me in, Daddy?”

“Shut up and lie on the bed.”

John gives him an appraising look but obliges. He rests on his back, eyes met once more with the formidable ceiling that he had previously spent so much time accessing when he had first attempted to sleep. He feels the bed sag and dip beneath added weight and he realizes, with rising alarm, that Sherlock is getting in to the bed next to him.

John’s face is practically flaming, “Sherlock!”

“I said shut up,” Sherlock mutters and John makes choked noises because, really, this is intolerable. Sherlock in his bed. Next to him. Lying next to him. In his bed. Next to him. The words interconnect and become a litany in his mind, repeating over and over.

Sherlock doesn’t seem agitated in the slightest, instead sighing enormously, as if all this is a great strain. His eyes narrow, “Do you hear that?”

“Hmm?” John manages, still struggling with adjusting to his current predicament. 

They rest there in relative silence and John wonders what exactly Sherlock’s plan is when he hears a muted whimper. John’s whole body tenses. He hopes he imagined it. He prays he imagined it. Then it sounds again, followed by an unmistakable thump, a squeak of a bedspring.

John squeezes the bridge of his nose, eyes squeezing tightly shut, his thoughts jabbering, panic stricken: _Oh no, oh god, not now! Not now, not now!_

He wishes it was a nice break from the earlier chant in his mind about him and Sherlock being in bed together but instead the two thoughts have melded and he’s afraid he’s going to have a complete meltdown. Between this, the loss of sleep, and the fantasies about controlling time, he’s quite positive that he is truly mad. Absolutely bonkers.

The sounds from next door are increasing in volume and intensity. Sherlock has not breathed a word and John is amazed he hasn’t shriveled up and died from embarrassment yet. Nothing could be more awkward than this. In bed, next to Sherlock, the amorous couple next door having an enthusiastic bout of noisy sex.

John has never felt more exhausted.

He opens his eyes and inhales. He envisions it again. Slow, slow, slow – stop. Pause. John sits up and exhales. Everything is quiet and still. No more sex noises from next door, nothing from Sherlock, not that he’d been talking anyway and now, in this frozen moment, John can risk looking at him.

Sherlock is laying there, picture perfect, eyes on the ceiling, fingers knitted together, hands on his chest. John bites his bottom lip and reaches out a hand, running it along Sherlock’s arm before resting it on top of his hands, squeezing lightly.

He thinks back to the two of them in that shadowed restroom, the sound of their breathing, and John feels the anxiety from earlier bleed out of him, feels himself settle comfortably back into numbness. His thoughts unexpectedly drift to Sarah, to their breakup, to the sound of her voice, the things she said. Words drift back to him, whispered on the wind as if she’s speaking them right now.

_I’m sorry. I don’t think I can make you happy. Maybe we should stop seeing one another._

He doesn’t even remember what he said back. But he does remember-

_John, you know, we both know, that you…fancy someone else…_

It was a blur after that. He had made it a blur. He hadn’t wanted to focus on what she had said because it was sharp and painful. Like a bright light being shined directly into his eyes. It was all so stupid. He laughs suddenly and, without thinking, squeezes Sherlock’s hands again.

He looks at his flatmate. He looks at the most insufferable man he has ever met. The most insufferable man he will probably _ever_ meet. He looks at him and knows he is completely fucked. He considers the possibility of just leaving time like this. Permanently paused. He could fall back on the bed, close his eyes, and _rest_. Forever.

He pulls his hands from Sherlock’s, rubs at his face, musses his hair, and shakes his head. His lips twitch and he thinks about what Sherlock will say when he speaks again. He resumes his position, snaps his fingers. Sherlock lets out a breath, “Our neighbors are having intercourse.”

John lips finally give up and he smirks, “Yeah.”

“Is that what is keeping you awake?”

“No.”

Silence returns and John is more than comfortable with it. It’s actually rather nice, this moment, Sherlock in bed next to him, time unfrozen. Sherlock, being Sherlock, ruins it, “Have you tried masturbation?”

The sound John makes in retaliation to this question causes even Sherlock to laugh, if just a little. Eventually he gives a real answer, “That’s…private.”

“Yes, then. How about exercise? Your diet? Drugs – legal and illegal?”

“You are underestimating my skills as a physician. I assure you I am aware of, and have tried, all the suggested remedies for my problem and none of them have worked,” John thinks over his words and then adds, “Save the illegal drugs option and no, I am _not_ interested in trying that either, and you, Sherlock, had better not have any such substances in this flat.”

“So, psychological,” Sherlock mumbles under his breath, “you said you didn’t think it was merely Sarah chucking you-”

“Oh, chucking me, yeah, thanks for that!”

“-so there must be another, more pressing reason. There are few conundrums that weigh so much on the human mind as to cause insomnia. The majority of them are linked with guilt, stress, fear. Your mind, being slightly above that of the average individual and your unique life experiences can help us narrow it down to the most likely suspect.”

“You’re…trying to solve this? Like…like one of your cases?”

Sherlock shrugs, “One could make the argument that there is a mental assassin in your mind, killing your chances at sleep, and, in the process, killing you.”

“Sherlock, I don’t think I’m going to _die_ from...”

“Insanity could be considered a type of death. “

John closes his eyes, “I will give you that. I am a little worried about my sanity.”

“Oh?”

John nods, “I’ve been…having the strangest…pauses.”

"'Pauses’?”

“Mmm. It’s like…time stops. And only I can move.”

Sherlock doesn’t respond so John risks opening his eyes. Sherlock has lifted himself up on to one elbow and is staring down into his face. He looks sort of…fascinated and John feels himself blushing again. He closes his eyes, more at ease without seeing Sherlock, without seeing Sherlock looking at him.

“John, how often has this happened?”

“Twice.”

“When?”

“Once at the crime scene. Then just now, few minutes ago. Daft, I know.”

“What causes them?”

John opens his eyes again. Sherlock still has that look on his face. John looks away from him, absorbed in staring at the edge of his pillow, “Nothing. There…it’s just my imagination. It’s silly.”

“You said only you can move.”

“Yeah?”

“What do you do?”

John licks his lips, “Dunno…hang around.”

"'Hang around'?”

“Yeah, well, it’s like no one can move so it’s a bit like being in a giant art gallery. Everyone is a statue I can examine up close.”

“Control,” Sherlock says, one finger rubbing at his bottom lip, “That’s the focal point. You feel as if you have no control.”

“I have plenty of control!” John grumbles and when Sherlock scoffs he feels himself grow angrier, “Sherlock, trust me, if I had no control, you would know it.”

“Would I?” Sherlock says this in such a baiting tone that John leans up, glares at him, “Yes!”

Sherlock takes on a patronizing tone, prepared to go into a detailed diatribe, “John, there is nothing wrong with admitting you are powerless t-”

Whatever Sherlock was going to say after this is cut off as John’s mouth crushes down over top of his. 

Sherlock lets out a sharp, questioning sound and doesn’t get a chance to do much more than that, John’s lips warm and full on his, the pressure insistent and just as he opens John draws away, collapsing back on the bed, giggling drunkenly. Sherlock’s eyes narrow, “Why’re you-?”

John presses the heels of his hands against his eyes, interrupting him, “Oh, wow…I _am_ exhausted. Honestly. I’ve become delirious. I just imagined I kissed you.”

“John…you didn’t imagine it.”

John’s hands drop away from his face. He gapes at the ceiling like a fish out of water. Sherlock continues, “You did kiss me. Not but five seconds ago.”

“No…”

“Yes.”

“I-I would never do that. ‘S…fantasy… fantasized it.” 

“John, you kissed me.”

“Oh god,” John groans, hands back over his eyes, “God…I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

“Why?”

This threw John for a loop, as this is not the kind of response he is expecting, his sleep-deprived mind scrambling over what Sherlock has said, finally managing, “Why what?”

Sherlock sighs impatiently, “Why are you sorry?”

“Um…dunno? I-I guess because you didn’t…want me to? Didn’t like it?”

“Did _you_ like it?”

“I didn’t...” John stalls, shaking his head, lowering his hands once more, “Wasn’t very long, was it? And I thought I imagined it.”

“Hmm,” Is Sherlock’s response and John hates him right now for making him feel so vulnerable, so on the edge of uncertainty. When Sherlock speaks again, his tone is indecipherable, “Are you not sleeping because of me?”

John swallows thickly, “Not-not exactly…the…control bit may’ve been spot on. There was…I never told you…Sarah, when she broke up with me, she said,” John exhales loudly, “Know what? Doesn’t matter. I’m…god, I’m _so_ bloody tired…I don’t know what it is anymore. Been…thinking…so much lately and it’s...”

“John, I’m going to say something to you I thought I would never say to anyone,” Sherlock breathes as he moves upward, rolls his body over top of John’s, his head angling to one side, “Stop thinking."

Sherlock’s head ducks downward, his lips meeting John’s, brushing against them invitingly until John lets him in, their tongues tentatively slipping delicately against one another. John relaxes under him, body melting, boneless as he envisions it - slow, slow, slow…but not stop, not this time. Just sweet, sweet slowness, so he can savor this moment, savor this kiss that he’s wanted for longer than he cares to admit.

He doesn’t need to snap his fingers to resume time to a normal speed, time more than happy to accommodate him as the kiss becomes more heated, Sherlock’s hands on him, long fingers grasping and squeezing and then the kiss is broken as Sherlock slowly starts to easy down John’s body, dropping kisses along the way, murmuring, “Oxytocin, prolactin, endorphins…”

“Mmm?” John manages breathlessly.

Sherlock continues to himself as if John hasn’t made a sound, “…chemical release…vigorous activity. So much better than exercise…exercise is boring…”

“Sherlock?”

“John, I told you to stop thinking. Talking involves thought process. Least it should. Anderson being an example of one who speaks before he thinks. If he thinks at all,” John can feel Sherlock’s lips smile against his bare skin as he tugs John’s bottoms down, exposing him and John murmurs protests, tries to cover himself and Sherlock bats his hands away, scowling, “Stop it.”

“Sherlock, I don’t…you’re,” John’s whole body feels tightly wound, hot, “I’d like-like to keep my pants _on_.”

“Oh, please.” One of Sherlock’s hands finds John’s erection, gently squeezes it and John gasps, “That is obviously not the case.”

“You’re – you’re not seriously-?”

“John, if I’m not serious about it why, pray tell, am I currently between your legs? Now shut up and - Stop. Thinking. A good go of sexual congress will help you to no end. Not only to give you a modicum sense of control but it should also do well to silence your mind. Furthermore, you might take some satisfaction in being vociferous enough for next door to hear. It would only be fair.”

“But…do you-do you even-?”

Sherlock’s eyes narrow and John gets the bewildering impression that the man is actually somewhat offended by the suggestion. Though as to why, John has no idea, as he had previously made it abundantly clear that he isn’t interested in these sorts of affairs. But then, John can’t be certain that this isn’t something his fevered mind has dreamed up.

Maybe the kiss happened, but the idea that Sherlock has stripped him of his clothing as it about to –

And then he groans, positive it _is_ a dream, because Sherlock’s mouth has taken the full length of his cock and is working over it in the kind of fashion that one can only summon up in dreams. His tongue sure and perfect, circling the head and teasing the length with surprising ardor. And then Sherlock’s hands circle his wrists, drawing his hands upwards, pressing them to either side of his head, urging him to take hold and _Christ_ …

John whimpers, his fingers threading through Sherlock’s soft hair, cradling his skull as he urges him to move, directs him and he can’t believe this is happening, can’t believe he is doing this, can’t believe that Sherlock is doing this and Sherlock just moans, sucking more eagerly, as if he is enjoying it and, god, maybe he is, and that’s - it’s been too long and it’s too much, too much and he’s going to…going to…

John’s fingers tighten and he tries to draw Sherlock away, tries to say something but every sound he makes comes out choked and desperate and then Sherlock’s hands tighten on his hips, pushing them down almost violently, as he takes in as much as he can, sinking deeper, nose brushing his stomach and John loses it completely, arching his back, crying out as he comes and Sherlock drinks it all in, swallowing him whole.

John feels the tremors of his orgasm still rippling through him, his eyes wide, mind entirely blown apart as Sherlock slowly draws his mouth away, rubbing the back of his hand along his lips before moving up and kissing him and John can taste himself and Sherlock and it’s all mixed together and John gasps, “Wow,” before he loses consciousness.

*

John awakens the next day to find himself alone in bed. He blinks and grumbles and tosses about. His mind slowly recollects itself, knitting back together and then he jolts upright, one thought jumping to the forefront.

Sherlock and sex.

Sex and Sherlock.

He…had sex…with Sherlock.

He got off with his flatmate. With the world’s only consulting detective. The world’s only consulting detective had given him a-

“Oh god!” John cries and fell back, burying himself under the covers, his mind still reeling. It was a dream. Right? Has to be. There was no way on earth...

“Ah, good, you’re awake.”

John untangles himself from the covers to see Sherlock walk into the room with a tray. He sets the tray on the bed, voice neutral, “Tea and biscuits.”

John eyes the tray warily, “Tea and biscuits?”

“You’ve been asleep for almost a day and a half,” Sherlock returns as he pours John a cup, presses it into his hands, “Should be recovered. No more pauses. Drink up.”

John does as he is told because he can think of nothing else to do. He drains the whole cup, then, “Tea is…quite good,” he frowns, “Too good. Mrs. Hudson?”

“She did drop by. Made you a cuppa.” Sherlock says this in a way that is full of far too much humor to make John comfortable and John sighs, putting the cup and tray aside on the bedside table, “Sherlock…about-about what happened…”

“John, you would do well to eat the biscuits. Best to get your strength back. You do owe me after all.”

“Owe you?”

“Quite. I found the remedy to your sleeplessness, not to mention stopped the ebbing flow of your possible insanity. The least you could do is replenish yourself enough to give me my fair share.”

“Your-your fair share?”

Sherlock sighs as if John is purposely trying his patience, “Of sex, John. You may have been well satisfied, I, on the other hand…”

John is positive he is positively glowing red, “You-you…want-?”

Sherlock shrugs lightly, “I think it only fair.”

“Yeah, but, um, mean, it…this is a bad idea, right?”

“Possibly. Probably. But the truth of the matter is; I rather like you. And you rather like me, if your bout with insomnia has taught us anything, and bad ideas are far more exciting than good ones. No telling where a bad idea might lead you.”

“Um…doesn’t it lead to…bad things?”

“Not necessarily,” Sherlock says with a slight smile, “One might say it was bad idea for you to live with me in the first place and look how swimmingly that has turned out so far.”

“I…suppose.” John agrees softly and then, “We need to talk about this, though.”

Sherlock’s eyes roll upwards, “John, why do you persist on leading yourself down the same path that led to your earlier misfortune? It was your over analytical thinking that led you to your dilemma in the first place. Sarah’s breaking up with you was merely the catalyst.”

“ _You_ are talking to _me_ about over analytical thinking?”

“My thinking is well organized. Yours is not. It was all cluttered together in your mind until it blocked out your ability to rest. You simply refused to put it in order. That is also why time seemed to ‘stop’ for you. Your mind was like a computer with too much on its hard drive. See? Deletion _is_ effective.”

“I thought I had a simple little mind.”

“You do, but, continuing with my analogy, even a low rate computer can get backed up.”

“Okay, well, thanks for that.”

“Not everyone can have a top of the line, John, don’t take offense.”

John just sighs, “Talking about this will help me organize my mental files. Help me ‘delete’ things I don’t need to think about anymore, things I don’t need to stress over…”

Sherlock’s head tips to one side thoughtfully, “Very well. I can concede to that, I suppose, but after.”

“After?” John repeats dimly and Sherlock pushes him down on the bed, crawling over top his body, kissing him, “Yes. After.”

John stares up at him, dazed, “You…you really want to-?”

“John, one thing you will never have to think about or stress over again is whether or not I want you,” Sherlock took one of his hands, guiding it between his legs and John moans at the feel of Sherlock’s erection beneath his palm, “I assure you. That is not a problem.”

John starts kissing Sherlock back, more than happy to finally let go, when Sherlock whispers, “It will be a shame, however, to lose out on the observational insights you only seem to achieve through sleep loss.”

John frowns, confused, and Sherlock explains, “The deductions you made at the Bishop murder. I found them…appealing.”

“Oh? I rather thought you didn’t like sharing the spotlight.”

Sherlock merely smiles and John knows he’s caught him, even if just a little, and as they kiss again a very small part of him wishes he could still pause the moment because he’s so happy but the rest of him is more than happy to not have a single pause delay the future in store.


End file.
